


What you wore

by Chocolatepot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Clothing Porn, Fix-It, Gen, Sirius Black Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-08 00:59:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16419410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocolatepot/pseuds/Chocolatepot
Summary: Sirius reflects on his lifelong sartorial choices as he prepares for a big event. A short "Sirius Lives" AU!





	What you wore

What you wore was important. Sirius had always known that, even as a little kid.

Well, he hadn't really _known_ it. He'd just wriggled as Kreacher attempted to stuff him into the elaborate dress robes his parents considered appropriate for their son and heir even on an ordinary morning, until one of them gave the house elf permission to freeze him in place with magic to get the job done. When Sirius told him about it, Remus got that thoughtful look on his face and pointed out that it was just like him to rebel against the restrictions and responsibilities of pureblood high society even at three or four, but honestly, the robes were just uncomfortable. A linen shirt (cotton was "vulgar", according to Walburga Black) with starched ruffles at the cuffs went on first, and then some hideous outfit made of velvet or taffeta – long-sleeved, even in the summer, fastened with hooks and eyes all the way up the back and held tight with a sash that somehow always loosened and slipped down his hips, and usually trimmed at the neck with some kind of antique lace bought by his great-great-great-grandmother that he was ordered to be careful of, which ripped if you so much as looked at it wrong. And his hair? Long and curled, of course. Oh, the row when Peter got hold of an old picture of himself and Reg that his friends thought was Andromeda and Bellatrix … 

When he was first fitted for them, he'd thought that the plain, serviceable Hogwarts school uniforms were the most amazing things he'd ever worn. Lightweight, loose, cheap, identical to everyone else's – and, best of all, put on by himself and worn however he liked. Sure, he might lose a few points here and there for his tie being absent or his sleeves ragged, but after the punishments his parents and Kreacher dished out from the time he could walk, who cared about points and detentions? 

But the charm of the simple and anonymizing uniform robes palled when James offered him a spare pair of denim trousers and a t-shirt for their first Hogsmeade visit. Both were a bit too small for him, but they just felt _right_ in a way that none of the bespoke robes he was forced to wear at home ever had. The uniform allowed for careless fun – but Muggle clothes were designed for it. It took a lot of owls and subterfuge, but he managed to accumulate a decent wardrobe for himself even before he moved in with James. He could definitely accept Remus's psychological explanation when it came to the tight bell-bottoms and shirts with band logos, since every time he put them on and looked in the mirror, he got a quick, satisfying vision of his mother with a savage glare – and the beat-up leather jacket, well. Even better.

And then, of course … Azkaban. The prison robes stripped away all his humanity and individuality and made him nothing but livestock. He'd stopped actually thinking about them after the first few years, and he never thought about them now if he could help it. When he'd met up with Harry and Remus in the Shrieking Shack, there hadn't been time to consider how he looked, but when he thought back on it, even when he was alone, he couldn't help but blush. (Him! Blushing!) Filthy, his hair matted, and in that damned Azkaban uniform – it all must have made him seem like some kind of terrifying nightmare to his thirteen-year-old godson.

And now, here he was – full circle, you might say. Sirius refocused his eyes and stopped vacantly gazing off into the distance. Going back to the mirror, he ran a hand down the front of his robes to smooth them down. He'd been a free man for more than ten years now, and most of that time he'd spent in his customary t-shirts and jeans. There were occasional dips into formality, like for Harry's wedding, but even then he kept things low-key in unornamented dark grey. When you were heading to your investiture as the newest member of the Wizengamot, though, you had to step it up a little.

It was a good thing that he took after his mother – _not_ words he'd ever thought he would put together – because if he looked more like his father, what he saw in the mirror would have creeped him out. The dress robes were brand new and made especially for him, but Orion Black would have happily put them on in a moment if they'd been hanging in his armoire. (With satisfaction, anyway. He rarely did anything happily.) Sirius had started with a starched linen shirt very much like the ones he'd been forced into as a child, trimmed with crisp, transparent ruffles at the wrists, and it was fastened down the front with studs made from black pearls; the necktie surrounding the standing collar that brushed his jawline was purple foulard, spotted with gold. Over it, he'd put on a double-breasted, narrow-collared waistcoat of blue silk shot with black, and fitted it closely with the half-belt on the back. Once he was invested, they'd deck him out in the traditional plum-colored silk robes, but for now he was dressed in superfine black cashmere – twenty-year-old Sirius was laughing at him somewhere, he was sure of it, but in his dotage he was dismayed to find that he was starting to appreciate things like that – cut with broad, M-notched lapels, stiffly quilted on the underside.

But there was one thing his father would never have put on. Sirius had insisted the dress robes include a pair of trousers, and when Mr Twilfitt refused to comply, he eventually took a few yards of the cashmere to a Muggle tailor and had them made up alone. It was highly unorthodox, but despite the strands of grey in his hair, the love of nice fabrics, and the apparently respected role in society, he was still Sirius Black, damn it, and he was going to hold onto his own standards. And, most importantly, he was going to tweak the noses of the many people who were annoyed that he was joining the Wizengamot by doing it.


End file.
